Ascension
by Draconian Scribe
Summary: When an ill-conceived class project takes a disastrous turn for the worst, the dead walk, the living fall, and faith is the first to perish. The War may be over, but the battle for survival has just begun. Originally published on HP Zombie-Fest. WARNING: MATURE! Cover image by nonidipriv (deviantART).
1. The First Wave

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**WARNINGS: Cannibalism, explicit sexual situations, graphic violence, main character death, psychological trauma, secondary character death, strong profanity, and suicide.**

**NOTE: This story has been modified from its original publication in hp_zombiefest. Happy Halloween! :)**

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><p>THE FIRST WAVE<p>

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><p>Draco stood in the deserted corridor outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, alone once again. One would think he'd grown accustomed to the feeling by now. Goyle had never really forgiven him for Crabbe's death, but these days, he didn't allow himself to dwell on that for too long. As much as he'd abused the pair for their gullibility and detested them for the sickening ease of their corruption, he'd still considered them his friends for the majority of his years at Hogwarts. Perhaps a part of him missed those days of strutting down the corridors, flanked by his thuggish companions, but he'd done his duty to his former friend, paid his respects, and moved on. After all, one could only mourn so much for a fool who'd brought about his own destruction.<p>

He could hardly even remember those days anymore. The memories felt as if they belonged to someone else—someone from a different life, who knew nothing of the ways of the world, outside of the sanctimony of his upbringing, and thrived in the sheer ignorance of it all.

Staring at the three rolls of parchment, flattened and plastered to the wall before him, he read and reread the multitude of names scrawled across them, searching for a place where he belonged. It seemed pointless. No such place existed for a Death Eater amongst the triumphant children of the light, the fallen, or even the grey areas in between, where much wiser individuals had chosen to remain.

Curious, how the task of deciding between the lesser of two evils had once come so easily to him. He'd known his priorities then. He did whatever he had to do to keep himself and his family alive. Even if it meant extending their wretched existences by a mere day, or a meagre hour, he'd considered no sacrifice too great. He would've given up anything—his pride, his conscience, and his very humanity—to ensure his own survival. But now, stranded in the stillness of the aftermath, he no longer had anything left to divert him from asking the single, most dreaded question that had plagued him for so long:

_Was it worth it?_

He honestly didn't know. He'd spent the last two years struggling to preserve a life that hardly even resembled one anymore. The world had changed, and it expected him to salvage what he could from the rubble of lies that had once sheltered his existence and "start over," as if such abstract absolutions came so easily to those who truly needed them. Everything that he had once confided in had now betrayed him, leaving him to fend for himself in a society that he no longer understood or recognised. His parents became strangers. His friends became his enemies. His own home became a prison.

Sometimes, he wondered if he ever really knew his parents at all. When he looked at them now, through surfeited, grey eyes, aged far beyond his years, he saw all of the things that he hated about himself. In his mother, he saw the same fear and need for order that would never permit him to question authority and ensure that he always remained within the carefully drawn lines that secured him to his duty. In his father, he saw the same self-righteous ignorance that would compel a man to value his pride over all else, even those whom he professed to care for. He saw the same selfish coward who would think of nothing but his own family, even as he ran straight past the nameless sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers that lay strewn across the battlefield. And yet, despite it all, he knew that he could never truly blame his parents for any of it, or for the person that he'd become. No amount of hostilities or accusations would change anything now. Given a similar situation, he probably would've done the same.

But no one ever wants to believe the worst about his or her self. Not even him.

Unable to bear the suffocating taint of his ancestral home, he returned to Hogwarts. The walls, like the walls of his manor, now shone with a renewed vigour, as if gold trimmings and refurbished hangings alone could conceal the inky, black stains that writhed close beneath. But he still remembered the sins that had slowly dripped and bled into the foundation. He still remembered the nightly screams that had reverberated through the stone, intruding upon his nightmares as he shuddered in the safety of emerald sheets. He still remembered all of the death that had passed through these halls. And time would never allow him to forget.

He wandered the castle like a ghost, worlds away from the lively souls around him. He haunted the library, sustaining himself by stealing glances at the forbidden and throwing everything he had left into his studies, reading about other people's lives in a vain attempt to distract himself from his own, and dreaming of the day when he'd finally leave this accursed place for good. He skulked in the back of classrooms, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. It seemed ages ago that he'd gloried in the spotlight of fear, disgust, and loathing aimed towards him by his classmates. They'd served as the source of his power, because they'd _hated_ him. _Envied_ him. _Respected_ him, even—however grudgingly they'd allowed themselves to submit to that fact. He'd relished the knowledge that he could affect and incite them so easily, consuming their every jealous, vengeful notion at whim. It would suffice to say that no one envied or respected him now. But the hate… The hate would always remain.

Not for the first time in his life, he found himself at a standstill, uncertain where to begin. Uncertain as to which route to take. Uncertain where it all leads to in the end.

Instinctively, he reached for the vine wand that he'd carried with him since that ill-fated skirmish at the manor. It didn't work for him as well as the new wand he'd commissioned after the War, but something about it gave him strength. Something about it gave him the will to keep fighting. This particular wand, as fiercely beautiful as its owner, felt odd in his hands, but not odd in a terrible way, simply odd in the fact that he had not earned the right to hold and keep it.

He'd never told his parents or anyone else that he'd given in to impulse and stowed it away after finding it in the carnage. He'd recognised it almost immediately, having acquainted himself with the receiving end more times than he cared to admit. At first, he'd told himself that he'd saved her wand with the intention of using it as collateral for his own. But when he'd finally returned to Hogwarts, he'd continued to excuse his unwillingness to approach her as just a matter of waiting for the right place and the right time to discuss the negotiations. Eventually, he realised the disturbing truth.

He didn't _want _to give it back.

He had a disease festering inside of him—an infection that had taken root early on in his childhood and had mutated into something much more condemning and sinister. It demanded sustenance, and the dark hunger that gnawed at his innards whenever he saw her standing alone, proud and fearless, whenever he saw her fussing over a perpetually oblivious Weasley, whenever he saw her happy and laughing along with her friends, refused to relinquish its claim upon the one small part of Hermione Granger that he could ever hope to keep for himself. Getting his old wand back didn't even matter to him anymore. Not as much as this. He didn't care how dangerously obsessed or despicable it sounded. At this point, very few aspects of his pathetic, ostracised half-life seemed to matter anymore.

A sudden disturbance in his surroundings alerted him to the swift and purposeful patter of footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he tensed, reaching instead for his other wand. He stilled, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every so often, he had to defend himself from the usual, ill-conceived ambush or two. Seeing as how the rest of the school mainly consisted of bereaved family members who thirsted for vengeance, his own Housemates, who openly spat upon the Malfoy name for walking free while their families suffered the full punishment of the Ministry, and countless other twats who simply wanted a go at him, McGonagall had taken it upon herself to enforce strict measures upon her new regime, more or less forbidding the rest of the student body from assaulting the last Death Eater at Hogwarts. But since when had the rules ever stopped anyone?

He whipped about, prepared to curse whatever fuckwit had dared to approach him to within an inch of his or her life, only to come to an abrupt halt. Hastily, he stuffed his wand back into the pocket of his trousers, scowling at the bewildered brown eyes that greeted him.

"Oh, it's _you,"_ he scowled, laying on as much scorn as he could muster. The pounding surge of adrenaline that should've felt as familiar to him as his own wand had yet to subside. If anything, it had merely intensified. The initial threat had passed, yet he continued to stand there, rooted to the spot, on edge, and unable to flee, as blood rushed and thudded in his ears, so jarring and loud that he feared she would overhear.

"Of course it's me," Granger scoffed, oblivious to his discomfort. "What the devil do you think you're doing, brandishing your wand about like some raving lunatic? You could've _really_ hurt someone!"

"I do believe that was the point, Granger," he snidely remarked. "I'm not about to doss down in the corridors, leaving myself open for the next fucking idiot who tries to do me in."

Her eyes widened and she blinked at him for a moment. How he hated those eyes. Those bright, honest eyes… "Not everyone's out to get you, you know," she quietly replied.

"I see that you're as pious as ever," he sneered.

He wouldn't let her see—would never let her know—how much her words had truly affected him. He refused to hand over another weapon for her to manipulate him with, the same weapon that his parents had never hesitated to wield upon him, because they knew how desperately he longed for their approval.

After everything he'd seen and done in the War, he'd vowed never to give someone that much power over him again. Love, in his limited experience, served only as an excuse. A masquerade of self-gratification. A tool of extortion. And pain. Endless, perpetual, bone-deep pain. He hadn't spoken to Granger in months, not since their last disastrous encounter, and until now, he had intended to keep it that way.

In truth, he just didn't know what to say to her. The notion of apologising had crossed his mind once or twice, but when he really paused to consider all of the things that he needed to apologise for, he realised that nothing he conceded to her would ever come close to warranting her forgiveness. He couldn't think of anything he could say, or anything he could do, to make himself worthy in her eyes. So, he spared them both the agony and the awkwardness by not saying anything at all.

But now, having her so close to him, and yet so far away, reawakened the desperate longing that loomed within the darkest recesses of his heart. No matter how many times he'd tried to convince himself that he'd come to terms with his predicament, he could never deny his baser instincts—the same selfish instincts that had driven him to cower behind his aunt as she tortured the one Muggle-born who deserved a wand more than the Dark Lord's entire army combined.

Yes, _Muggle-born._ He'd stopped using that hateful word the day that he, a pureblood wizard, stood idly by, shuddered, and watched as she took wave after wave of the Cruciatus Curse and refused to break. Only later did he find out that she'd lied. Even knowing that she would've faced certain death or insanity if she'd held out any longer, she'd continued to lie to her tormentor's face, fighting and screaming until the very end. _Disgusting,_ how he'd spent nearly his whole life believing himself superior to the girl who stood before him. The girl who had something worth dying for. The girl who caused his words to wilt into nothing.

"I see that you're as pleasant as ever," she retorted, dismissing his taunt with a prissy roll of her eyes. "Anyway, Malfoy, I just received a parcel from Harry this morning, and despite the fact that I have far more important matters to attend to, I went looking for you, because I, unlike _some _people, have a sense of decency, and thought you might like this back. Merlin knows, I'll be mighty glad to be shot of it."

She held out a hawthorn wand, flipping it so that the handle faced him. Disbelief marred his haughty persona for the briefest instant before he quickly schooled his features and tentatively reached out across the distance between them. His hand brushed against hers for a terrifying moment as he closed his fingers over the wood. Immediately, he felt that familiar warmth in his fingertips, and that unmistakable tingle of magic that surged throughout his entire being and instilled within him a renewed sense of purpose. He felt power. He felt courage. But most of all, he felt forgiveness. And however fleetingly, that knowledge humbled and freed him. His wand forgave him for not having the strength to fight for it, for letting it go to another, and for his foolish attempts to taint it with Dark magic, despite the purity of the unicorn hair that laced its core. Reunited with its true owner at last, it forgave him for everything, because it understood him, and they completed one another.

For the first time in his life, he choked back a delirious outpour of relief, looked Hermione Granger in the eye, and fervently, truthfully, and without any ulterior motive, said to her, "Thank you."

"Oh, um," she stammered in surprise, clearly taken aback by his uncharacteristically sincere response. "Don't thank me! Really, it's Harry you should be thanking! He repaired his old wand a while back, but what with Auror training, renovating Hogwarts, avoiding reporters, losing his owl, and all that, he never got around to getting yours back to you."

The sudden realisation that he had yet to return _her _wand sent him plummeting back towards the cold, hard ground of reality. His mask froze back in place, and Granger drew back slightly, startled by the abrupt switch in his demeanour. Several moments of terse silence followed before she bit her lip and averted her gaze to the stone floor, wringing her hands and nervously continuing, "Oh, and… He also told me to tell you that he's sorry he wasn't able to give it back to you in person. He, well, _we_ want to thank you. That wand saved more lives than you can possibly imagine."

She looked up at him then, a brave smile on her face, and he wrenched his eyes away before it threatened to destroy his resolve. "I get it, Granger," he snapped.

"Right," she frowned, seemingly perplexed by his irascible behaviour. "Well, I suppose I'll be going now. See you around, Malfoy. Take care of yourself."

He winced as she went. If anyone else had said that to him, it would almost certainly have served as the prelude to some sort of personal slight about his cowardice or something as equally demeaning. Because, unfortunately, he _did_ take care of himself. He took care of himself before anyone else, in fact. Even her. Like father, like son. But he knew that she didn't mean it that way. She never did. And perhaps he didn't mean most of the things that he'd said to her. But it didn't change the fact that he'd said them.

He could hear her slipping farther and farther away, but in the end, he did nothing. Because he knew that they would never work. Someone like him didn't belong in the same world as someone like Granger. She could never love him, and he could never love her—at least not in the true sense of such a maimed and twisted word. He told himself that he blamed his pride, but truthfully, his fear held him back, just as it always had in every aspect of his life. Fear stopped him from questioning his parents' teachings. Fear stopped him from standing up to them. Fear stopped him from risking everything to save her. But fear hadn't stopped Weasley. Or Potter. And in the end, they'd gotten her out alive. They deserved her. And even though it destroyed him to admit it, he had no right to begrudge them for that. He couldn't even say that he'd lost her to either one of them, because he'd never had her in the first place.

Fuelled by recklessness and self-disgust, he stormed over to the third sign-up sheet on the wall—the sheet marked:

_Defence Against the Dark Arts: "__Eighth-Year" Experiential Learning Project_

_~Sponsored by TerrorTours (59 Diagon Alley)~_

_Option #3 (of 3) - Zombie Trail_

_COMPLETION OF THIS PROJECT, OR AN APPROVED ALTERNATIVE, IS MANDATORY FOR ALL STUDENTS WHO WISH TO SIT FOR N.E.W.T.S IN THE SPRING._

Hovering overhead, there fluttered a notice that stated that, by signing below, all participants agreed to waive the right to hold the TerrorTours travel agency responsible for any and all injuries or deaths that may occur as a result of their excursions. Draco paid it no heed. Come what may, he would accept the consequences.

Due to his earlier stupor of indecision, he'd practically memorised the list of names by now, but just to make certain, he reread it one last time.

_Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Anthony Goldstein, Padma Patil, Pansy Parkinson, Ronald Weasley (Guest, Auror-In-Training), Hermione Granger…_

With frightening determination and an air of cold finality, he carved his name upon the parchment, sealing his fate.

Fuck the Bermuda Triangle and the bloody vampires.

The zombies beckoned.

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><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	2. The Second Wave

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

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><p>THE SECOND WAVE<p>

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><p>Hermione had never really cared for horror movies. She indulged in them every once in a while, mainly for the sole purpose of mindless entertainment and scoffing in disdain at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. She and Harry always had to fight to stifle each other's mirth every time Ron raced over to the telly, distraught and besieged with panic, pleading with the poor souls trapped inside to run. Her parents, whom she'd brought back from Australia straight after the War and had since forgiven her for her infringement upon their memories, had found Ron's reactions most amusing, and had even invited him to join them on their next family outing to the cinema. But in all honesty, monstrous creatures and bloodthirsty un-dead didn't faze her in the least. She'd met <em>people<em> in her life far more bestial and far less human than even the most slimy, fanged fiend of the night that had ever scuttled across the big screen.

But now, looking down at the mauled and convulsing hulk of flesh that would soon cease to identify itself as Anthony Goldstein, she suddenly lost the urge to laugh it all away. She didn't want to face the truth. She didn't want to acknowledge that the movies she'd once ridiculed and scorned had somehow crawled their way into her reality. That for all her magical knowledge, she felt as trapped and helpless as the terrified Muggles in her telly. That despite all her efforts to survive, to make a name for herself in this world where she so desperately wanted to belong, she found herself fighting once more—not for the right, but the _privilege, _to live.

They'd come out of nowhere. Rising from the ground, swarming out of the trees, straggling up the mountainside. Legions upon legions of ravenous un-dead. Less than five kilometres into their trek, a teeming mass of groaning, reanimated corpses had clambered towards their feast, engulfing the professor and dragging her under in an undulating tempest of ashen limbs and blackened teeth as they devoured her where she stood. Together, they ravaged the tender, malleable flesh with relishing smacks of their peeling lips. Even as her screams rattled throughout the shivering trees, the creatures tore her open, clawed out her innards, and sloppily unravelled them, each creature munching mindlessly along the splattered cords of her bowels.

Panic had ensued, and the paltry, eight-member group of horrified teens scattered in all directions as they hastened to escape. Misfired spells went whizzing past Hermione's ears as she fled the area. Fortunately, the monsters seemed too preoccupied with their newly acquired meal to give much chase. But a few towards the back of the crowd, that couldn't quite reach the warm confection in the centre, slowly began to stray in search of other options.

Then, Anthony dropped his wand, and against Hermione's urgent screams, he ran back for it. He just couldn't run fast enough. And she, the foolish Muggle-born, hadn't thought to use a Summoning Charm to retrieve his wand for him until he lay torn and howling upon the coarse, desecrated dirt.

As she'd blasted the flesh-eaters off of him, levitated what remained of his body into the nearest clearing, and erected a series of hasty wards, she had no strength left to stanch the bleeding of images that besieged her. She told herself over and over again that they meant nothing to her—nothing but mere memories, suppressed and smothered out of sight. Nothing but doubts that mocked and tormented her in the silence of her own mind.

Already, in her first year, the cracks had begun to show...

_"So light a fire!" Harry choked._

_"Yes—of course—but there's no wood!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands._

_"HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Ron bellowed. "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"_

Suddenly, the scene shifted, and she saw Umbridge's simpering face as she smirked at Mary Cattermole:

_"Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch."_

And last, but not least, the boy who'd first called her that hateful word, so many years ago...

_"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."_

Stupid.

Useless.

Inferior.

She retched, the acrid bile searing her tongue as it crawled its way up her throat. The smell of coagulating blood and decaying flesh permeated her lungs, causing her to heave until her ribs creaked in protest. She could still phantom-hear the hungry groans, the uneven lurching of dragged limbs, and Anthony's guttural cries. Her eyes burned and her vision swam, but she couldn't bring herself to shed a single tear. _No more. Not again. _After the War, she felt as if she had no tears left. She had nothing—_nothing—_left to give to the poor woman who had served as their teacher for a few sparse weeks. The teacher who everyone had hoped would finally bring an end to the curse that had plagued the doomed position for so long. She couldn't even bring herself to cry for this boy whom she hardly knew, but whose life had brought as much happiness to the ones who loved him as she hoped she did to the ones who loved her. Perhaps people didn't always live equal lives, but they all died the same.

_"ANTHONY!"_ Padma screamed. She stumbled into the clearing, her face ravaged by grief and her eyes demented with denial. "ANTHONY, _NO!"_

"P—Padma," Anthony weakly spluttered back, coughing and choking on his own blood. Whimpering and trembling with the effort, he reached out towards the sound of her voice, only to let out a gurgling cry at the sight of the bloodied stump where an imprint of human teeth had replaced his hand. "H—help me! Padma, _help me! _PADMA, _PLEASE!"_

Hermione immediately lunged forward and seized Padma, wrenching her away from Anthony's side. _"What are you doing?" _Padma shrieked, blindly kicking at her. "Let me go, _damn__ you!_ LET ME GO!"

"I'm sorry, Padma, but I can't do that," Hermione informed her, as firmly and steadily as her shaking voice could manage. "There's too much blood, and I can't risk you getting infected."

"But he's _alive! _He's alive!" she insisted, her words tainted with desperation. "He knows me! _He knows my name!"_

"For now," interrupted a cold voice. "But give him another half an hour, and he'll be one of _them."_

Draco Malfoy had entered the clearing, his eyes as dark and unyielding as stone, followed by a snivelling Pansy Parkinson, two gasps of horror from Ernie and Hannah, and a white-faced Ron, who, upon seeing her, rushed forward and crushed Hermione to him. Padma crumpled onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. "Somebody fucking _do _something!" she wailed.

Hermione had nothing to say to her—nothing that would absolve her of her complete and utter negligence. All of her guilt, anxiety, and insecurities collapsed in on her, and she held herself responsible for her classmate's distress. Her relief at reuniting with the rest of the group dissipated almost instantaneously as she caught sight of Malfoy's blackened eyes. He'd clenched his jaw, glaring at her with the utmost revulsion. Hermione swallowed, and gently disentangled herself from Ron's embrace.

She knew that he must blame her for failing to save Anthony, just as she'd failed to save countless other innocent lives during the War. They died, and she survived—the Mudblood who didn't deserve a wand, didn't deserve to just trespass into their world and take everything away from them, didn't deserve to tread upon the ground that lay soaked with their magical blood. Mudblood and proud, she'd once said. Now, she knew the ugly truth.

"Slytherin's soul," murmured Parkinson, gaping at Anthony's writhing form. She glanced wildly about. "What are you lot all standing around for? _Burn him!"_

Padma thrashed and wrung out her hair in despair. Ernie and Hannah scrambled to her side in a vain attempt to shush and console the normally collected and reasonable Padma, both looking equally horrified and on the verge of tears and sickness themselves. Padma, unlike her gossiping twin sister, possessed cool intellect and a strong work ethic. Seeing her in this state brought Hermione out of her self-imposed turmoil. She'd always hated Pansy Parkinson, but her unforgivable lack of tact at a moment like this impelled Hermione to loathe the insensitive cow even more than she loathed herself.

"Shut it, Parkinson," snarled Ron. "You don't even give a _shite_ whether he lives or dies. You're only out to save your own skin, _just _like when you tried to hand Harry over to that murdering bastard! I'm surprised you can even show your ugly mug in public, you pug-faced bitch!"

"Pansy's right," interjected Malfoy, cutting across Parkinson's indignant screeches of protest. "And clearly, you don't even know what the fuck you're talking about, Weasley. You want to stay here and coddle Goldstein? Be my guest. Saint Potter won't be here to save you when he wakes up and turns your bog-standard insides into his next meal."

Following Malfoy's ominous assertions, Anthony's moans had slowly begun to quail in both intensity and frequency, until finally, they subsided altogether and he laid limp and unresponsive upon the forest floor, seemingly unconscious, his soul fleeing his body in winding rivulets that pooled in patches beneath their dying host.

"So, it's kill or be killed, is it, Malfoy? Brilliant! Is _that_ what you told yourself when you tried to snuff Dumbledore? Fat lot of good it did you, you sick fuck," sneered Ron. "How do you _live _with yourself?"

Ron had gone too far. The moment she saw Malfoy's eyes narrow into slits and his right hand making a sudden movement towards his wand, she threw herself in front of Ron and shrieked, "STOP IT, _BOTH_ OF YOU!"

Alternating her wand between the two murderous glares that skewered her from both ends, she reasoned, "Look, Malfoy, I know what you're saying, and I'm certainly not disagreeing with you, but you're not the one who's losing a friend! You're not the one who's losing someone you care about! It's easy for _you _to say it's the sensible thing to do, but if it were you, would you able to do it? Would _you _be able to condemn someone you loved to _death?"_

"HA! _Love? _That's rich," Ron snorted with disdain. "Look at what his own parents did to him! Look at the fuckwits that he calls _friends! _They don't even know how to _spell_ the word, let alone figure out what it means—"

"That's enough, Ronald!" Hermione snapped. _"Not another word out of you! _Do you hear? You are needlessly escalating an already precarious situation, and you should be _ashamed _of yourself! The professor's _dead, _and like it or not, we all have to work together if we want to get out of here alive, so _grow up,_ will you?"

She turned back to Malfoy, determined to berate him as well, but paused at the strange, unfathomable expression on his face. His eyes bored into her with frightening intensity, and she couldn't help staring back, thrilled by a sort of morbid fascination. She'd grown accustomed to his arrogance, his scorn, and his cold indifference, but not this. He hadn't looked at her that way, not since the day she'd given him his wand back, but now, she saw it again—a glimpse into the unimpeded depths that coursed beneath the ice. Suddenly, she had the urge to flee, to back away, before she lost herself in them and couldn't pull herself back out. He looked at her as if he wanted to drown her. Her breath hitched in her throat and her pulse accelerated. She couldn't breathe. He would suffocate her…

"If it were someone I cared about, Granger, I wouldn't hesitate to end that person's misery," he quietly told her. "I would rather deliver the finishing blow myself than watch that person turn into a monster. And in the end, it wouldn't matter, because I know that I'll be close behind." She didn't have to ask him what he meant by remaining close behind. She knew what he meant, and she believed him. Everything, from his muted voice to his stormy eyes, reflected such inner turmoil that a part of her irrationally longed to reach out to him, but he'd already turned away. Sensing that all imminent danger had passed, she lowered her wand. But in the back of her mind, she silently wondered what sort of person could inspire Draco Malfoy, of all people, to testify to something so wretchedly impassioned, and least of all, to her. So, the boy with the eyes of stone had feelings after all.

He strode past Padma as she desperately fought to cling to her final hope, her pleas falling on deaf ears. Impassively, he disentangled himself from the distraught witch and forged on, his black cloak rippling in his wake as he hoisted Anthony up into the air with a mechanical flick of his wand. Hidden behind its cloudy fortress, the moon paled, shedding ghostly slivers upon his ascension as he rose out of reach of the trees and the foliage strewn across the forest floor. Small, red droplets trickled down onto the ground, joining the steadily receding puddle that slowly seeped into the dampened and thirsty earth.

Hermione couldn't take it anymore. She tore her eyes away, not wanting to see what happened next. She refused to engrave the last memory of her classmate into her heart as a pale, living corpse floating above them, looking down on her for her failure. Trembling beneath the terrible weight of her transgressions, she silently cursed the translucent, dome-shaped barrier that stretched overhead—the barrier that isolated the reservation from the outside world and wouldn't allow them to leave. Not without a fight. Gazing out across the darkening horizon, she kept her eyes riveted in the direction of the Portkey that she knew would get them out of this godforsaken place.

Only after she heard Malfoy's voice firmly enunciate _"Incendio!" _did she finally allow her tears to fall.

"I'm sorry, Anthony," she whispered. _"I'm so sorry."_

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><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	3. The Third Wave

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

* * *

><p>THE THIRD WAVE<p>

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><p>Draco finished putting up the last of the wards and paused to spare his partner a sideways glance. Not surprisingly, the instant that the group had slipped away to take shelter in a nearby copse, Granger had immediately volunteered to take watch and seal the area with protective enchantments. After considering his options, he'd gone with her, deciding that he'd much rather work in awkward silence with Granger than endure the accusations, distrustful glares, and underhanded remarks about his penchant for murder from the remaining group members and an inconsolable Patil.<p>

Perhaps in another time, in another place, he would've smirked with sinister satisfaction at the memory of what had happened when Weasley had tried to offer _his_ help. Granger had immediately snapped at him, informing him in her usual, verbose, insufferably know-it-all way that he needed to bugger off and that she, unlike him, had returned to school to complete her education _properly, _and possessed a far more intricate and cohesive knowledge of advanced defensive spells, and that he, _Ronald Bilius Weasley,_ could count this respite as a blessing and use it to reflect upon his actions and straighten out his priorities.

Draco, on the other hand, hadn't offered his help—not out loud anyway. He'd merely drifted away from the group and followed after her. Call him arrogant, but he considered his spell-work nearly a match for hers, more than anyone else back in that cluster-fuck of dozy sods, at any rate. She'd turned, and for a moment, she'd blinked at him with mild surprise and hesitation before acknowledging him with a stiff nod and trekking on. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

Returning to the task at hand, Draco cautiously took a step back as Granger proceeded to inspect their completed barrier in silence, her eyes eerily distant as she searched for the slightest gap in the shimmering walls. They both knew that even a single, misspoken syllable in the incantation or error in its execution could well make the difference between life and death.

"Good work, Malfoy," she concluded at last. "I'm impressed."

The irony of her complimenting him, a pureblood, on his magic, didn't escape him. As they turned and headed back towards the camp, his guts roiled and churned, every snapped twig, crunched swath of dirt, and restless leaf compelling him to say or _do _something, _blast it,_ even crack a droll remark or two, but he couldn't think of anything that didn't completely horrify him with the mere notion of its manifestation. Simply put, he just didn't know how Granger would react. He didn't know how she perceived him, despite all of his efforts to indirectly atone for his actions and strive towards civility. He just didn't know her… the way he wished he did.

"If you'd applied yourself in class for the past seven years the way you do now, I might've considered you more of a threat," she told him, the barest hint of a smirk tugging playfully upon her lips.

Did she just—_tease_ him?

He resisted the urge to stare and gape at her in disbelief, plastering a mask of haughty indifference upon his face and acting as if he simply refused to deign her with a response. She continued to walk straight ahead, keeping her eyes on the meticulous layers overhead that had gradually begun to dissolve into the darkness, until nothing, save for a barely detectable hum and the concealment of the shadows, remained to indicate its presence.

How did she do it? How could she just speak her mind so freely? So openly? So _honestly _to another person, and not fear that someone would someday use that knowledge to crush her?

Unexpectedly, her determined strides came to an abrupt halt. She looked over her shoulder and braved a glance in his direction, only to note his rigid posture. Her face fell. "Sorry," she muttered, averting her gaze. "You probably didn't want to hear that from someone like me."

Guilt strangled him and wouldn't allow him to articulate a response.

"You were right, you know," she whispered, her voice breaking all of a sudden. "All this time, you were right. I just didn't want to believe it."

"Granger, what—?" he stammered, deeply unnerved by the unmistakable tremors of defeat that wracked her small frame.

"If I'd grown up with magical parents like you, I would've been able to save him," she wept, her shoulders shaking as she slumped to the ground and succumbed to her anguish.

"If you had parents like me, you'd be a raving, brainwashed fuck-up who wouldn't give a shit about saving _anybody," _he spat. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but hearing her, of all people, whinging on about self-pity when she clearly had nothing—_nothing_—wrong with her made him so enraged that he almost wanted to hit her—to make her shut the _fuck _up and beat all of those _fucking_ delusions out of her.

He hated himself for leading her to think that way in the first place. He hated himself for hurting her, for _still _hurting her, for still _wanting _to hurt her. He hated himself for wanting her to feel, even for the slightest moment, a fraction of the pain that she caused him, every time she looked at him, every time she spoke to him, and every time she didn't. But most of all, he hated _her, _for making him wish he could change into someone else. Anyone else. Anyone but himself.

"Get up, Granger," he seethed with disgust. "Don't you _fucking _go mental at a time like this."

He made to storm off, unable to bear her needless sorrow and self-doubt for another moment, and nearly delirious with the compulsion to carve that vile tattoo out of his own arm and allow all of his frustrations—all of the evil and senseless hate that had ever caused her to diminish that way—to bleed out and die.

"Was it Parkinson?" she suddenly interrupted, her face still hidden.

He didn't understand her question. "What the bloody hell are you on about?" he demanded.

"Was she the one who inspired you to say those things?" Her sniffles had mostly subsided by now, but her voice still had a slight quiver to it. "Back in the clearing?"

He looked down at the grief-stricken witch before him, the one still clutching the same wand that had tortured her, murdered her best friend's godfather, and driven Longbottom's parents into insanity. She could've bought a new wand, but she didn't. She took other people's sins and made them her own. And she suffered for it.

No one else had ever made him feel so insignificant, so wretched, so unworthy of the term "human."

"No," he answered. "It's never been Pansy."

Granger remained silent for a moment as she mulled that statement over in that overlarge brain of hers. And for once, he wanted—no, _needed _her to. Because he had no right to say any of it out loud. Not now. Not ever.

"I heard that she called the engagement off," she said after a while, her voice marginally more steady.

"I heard that Weasley hasn't," he retorted.

She let out a watery chuckle at that. "Knowing Ron, we won't get to that stage for another six years."

"Pathetic," he sneered. He could do nothing else. Because he couldn't do better.

"Yeah, he is," she muttered, gently blowing her nose into the sleeve of her robes.

"I meant _you," _he lied, quickly changing tactics. Perhaps he'd vowed not to interfere, but if Weasley didn't have the bollocks, he didn't see anything wrong with twisting a few words around to suit his own nefarious purposes. "You don't strike me as the sort of bint who waits around for a bloke to grow a dick."

"I'm not!" she snapped defensively, several shades of her characteristic prissiness returning to her already. Then, she grew quiet again. "Well, at least… Not _anymore._ That's why, what with my studies and Ron's Auror training, we decided to take a bit of a break. I reckon we both need time to figure out what we really want. Now that Voldemort's gone, we'll have all the time in the world, I suppose."

She didn't say anything after that, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. And he didn't say anything to distract her from her musings, hoping against hope that they would somehow work in his favour, even if he'd accomplished nothing more than to inflict her with a single, fleeting doubt. Eventually, she gathered herself and scoffed, "Anyway, enough about me. _You,_ Malfoy, are much better off without that banshee. Even a prat like you deserves better than her."

He snorted with sardonic amusement. "Oh, _please._ I'm a Death Eater—saved from the nick by a half-blood, to boot. Not even Pansy's parents are mental enough to take a chance on _that."_

"You're not a Death Eater anymore," she whispered, so softly that he almost couldn't hear it.

There. She did it again. Spilling words out onto the ground so heedlessly and unreservedly. As if she expected nothing in return. As if they had no price. As if such things didn't matter. Those words should've pleased him. Vindicated him. But instead he found it a hollow victory. He felt only anger and dejection, because she _shouldn't _have said that. Not to him. Perhaps he couldn't control the circumstances surrounding his actions, but it would never change the fact that he'd made those decisions out of his own free will. He didn't deserve her kindness, or her sympathy, and even if he _did, _it wouldn't change a fucking _thing._ Why couldn't she _see _that?

"For fuck's sake, Granger, how can you be so fucking_ naïve?"_ he snarled, lashing out at her. He had to do it. He had to admonish them both. Before one of them said something that they couldn't take back. Something that would completely destroy the walls that he'd tried so hard to build between them. For her own good. "It doesn't _matter _if I'm not a Death Eater anymore! I _was! _And that's all the sodding Ministry cares about! Fuck, I don't even—I don't even know why I'm taking this fucking class, why I'm still in this fucking school, why I'm trying so _fucking _hard! I could get an 'O' in every pissing exam and _NEVER _get accepted into the Auror program!"

Granger finally looked up at him then, her eyes wide and rimmed with red. "You—you want to become an Auror?" she gasped.

_"WHAT ABOUT IT?" _he bellowed back. "DOESN'T IT JUST _SHOCK _YOU, GRANGER? THAT _I,_ DRACO MALFOY, WANT TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THIS FUCKED-UP WORLD? THAT I WANT TO HELP BRING DOWN THOSE BASTARDS THAT I ALMOST BECAME, SO THAT _NO ONE ELSE_ WILL _EVER_ HAVE TO GO THROUGH THE SAME _SHITE _THAT I DID? THAT I WANT PEOPLE TO _RESPECT _ME? NOT MY FUCKING_ NAME,_ OR WHO I FUCKING _WAS, _BUT _ME! _IS THAT SO WRONG, GRANGER? _IS IT?"_

Granger's eyes welled up all over again, compassion bleeding down her blotchy and hopelessly lovely face. Compassion for him. She trembled, sobbing, "Malfoy, I—"

"Fuck off, Granger," he hissed. "You know _nothing _about me." This time, he did what he should've done all along. He walked away and willed himself not to look back, not to look into her eyes. Because her eyes… those earthen eyes… would bury him alive.

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	4. The Fourth Wave

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

* * *

><p>THE FOURTH WAVE<p>

* * *

><p>Hermione sniffled in confusion as Malfoy stormed off. She swatted away the last of her tears, all the while wondering what had caused him to react so vehemently to her admissions. Honestly, what had gotten into <em>her?<em> His words had never meant much to her before. Why should they mean anything now? Throughout all their years at Hogwarts, nothing he'd said to her or her friends had ever truly affected her. She'd shed a few tears when she finally found out what that derogatory slur meant, but never again, she'd vowed. _Never again. _

In the years that followed, the bastard had made it easier than breathing. Ironically, all of the vicious sneers and cruel taunts that he'd used to debase her and make her feel inferior only made him uglier and less human in her eyes. She discovered that she no longer found it difficult to dismiss his derision, because she found it even harder to perceive him as a person. She didn't loathe him. She pitied him. To her, no human could possibly derive such sadistic pleasure from victimising his or her own kind, not without feeling the slightest bit of remorse—as if he or she had committed a crime against nature. No _human, _she realised. Only monsters. Not the ones hiding in the shadows beneath her bed or lurking in the cupboard, but the ones who walked amongst civilization, fancying themselves "human"—the most heinous beasts of all.

Then, things changed. She saw his fear eat away at him as the strain of serving the Dark Mark began to take its toll. She witnessed the rapid decline of his health as his own body physically rejected each and every atrocity it had swallowed. She heard him cry. And suddenly, she cared. She _bloody _cared, after all the years she'd spent trying not to.

Upon her return to Hogwarts, she'd initially experienced varying degrees of anxiety at seeing him there amongst her classmates. She didn't want to remember the War, or the deluge of death and horror associated with his presence. True, if he hadn't disarmed Dumbledore or attempted to duel against them at Malfoy Manor, Harry would not have come to possess the Elder Wand, and the War could've ended _very _differently, but still… Some things didn't just change overnight.

As the term progressed, they'd started spending more and more time together in the library. Well, not _together, _but simply remaining in the same room without incident. At first, she'd bristled with suspicion at his encroachment upon _her _territory as the resident bookworm, but then she recalled… Salazar Slytherin prized not only cunning and pedigree in the students of his House, but also cleverness and determination.

Day after day, she listened to the clamour of his tireless efforts to atone—the heavy thud of books smacking onto his desk, the crinkling of rifled pages, the frantic scratching of his quill, the absentminded mutterings of frustration beneath his breath, and the screeching of his chair as he leapt up in search of a new volume. And slowly, very slowly, something bordering on respect began to take root inside of her. Because of his reputation, he had to work twice as hard as everyone else, including her. People expected her to excel. Yet, despite Malfoy's natural talents, or how far he'd come from the snivelling, sneering snot that had once defined his deplorable existence, people would never expect, or _want _to see, the same of him. Eventually, she came to realise, he couldn't control the circumstances of his birth any more than she could.

With every struggle, injustice, and ostracism that he faced, she learned to let go of some of her own prejudices and misconceptions. Gradually, she came to forgive him. She simply saw no need to hold on to the bitterness any longer. For who could hate someone who tried so hard, so actively, to change himself? To strive to learn from his mistakes, and try to become a better person? Sometimes, when she looked at him, she saw a bit of herself. Ever since her initiation into the wizarding world, she'd tried so hard to overcome her own shortcomings and earn the respect of others. She'd studied her arse off, and people might call her a know-it-all for it, but she knew the truth. She knew the desperation that lurked behind it. And now, seeing him in a similar situation, she couldn't bring herself to resent him for any of it.

Malfoy had every right to yell at her. All the tears and self-pity in the world wouldn't bring Anthony back. She had no choice but to get up, give it everything she had left, and make sure that she didn't make the same mistake again. She stood and swiped her face clean, purged of all frailty and burning with resolve.

She'd barely taken a single step before she heard it. A rustling in the bushes. The snapping of a twig. The stumbling footfalls of deadened limbs, amplified by the deathly stillness of the night. She held her ground, her mind already whirring away as she calculated the frequency and proximity of the unnatural lurching. A chill colder than stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. The residents of the Trail had them surrounded.

She didn't even have time to think. A split second later, an ear-piercing wail shattered her senses, signalling the breach of the Caterwauling Charm. She dropped to her knees and covered her ears, unable to differentiate her own screams from the shrieking alarm. The defences that she and Malfoy had put up would only keep them occupied for so long. Most of the spells she'd thrown up protected them primarily from magical assaults. Against an actual _physical_ onslaught, however, she didn't know how long they'd last, especially when the foes in question had already died and knew neither pain nor fear, only the taste of human flesh.

She bolted to her feet, brandishing her wand at the thunderous footsteps behind her, only to find Draco Malfoy staring her down with a gaze so predatory and intense that she backed away instinctively.

"M—Malfoy?" she asked uncertainly, frightened by his lack of response. He didn't answer, stalking towards her as if possessed, his eyes blazing with determination and the grey ashes of demonic hunger. His pale skin stood out strikingly against the shadows, and Hermione feared for the worst. He'd turned into one of _them._

Before she could defend herself, he lunged at her and bit roughly at her lips, his sharp teeth breaking through the tender skin. She opened her mouth to scream, but he greedily swallowed her cries, wrenching her head back and groaning as he seized her tongue and sucked upon it, pulling at the slick flesh with his lips. She struggled against him, writhing in his clutches and shoving at him as she twisted her arm around to try and get a clear shot at his head. She took aim and instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, only to falter as she heard him moan something. Something that sounded suspiciously like _"Hermione."_

He hadn't turned, she realised. She could taste it—the frantic need and desperation upon his tongue as he penetrated her mouth over and over with its soft, thick length. She could taste every complicated, pent-up desire that he'd managed to shove into this one kiss, and it completely overwhelmed her. Her mind went reeling, and words escaped her as she drowned in the heady tempest that swallowed up her senses.

When he finally wrenched his mouth away, he grabbed her by the shoulders and growled, "Listen to me, you stubborn bint! I—I fucking care about you, and I am _not _going to lose you because you think you're on some sort of mad, altruistic suicide mission like the rest of your bleeding House! Don't you _dare _leave my side! For fuck's sake, _I'm in love with you,_ and I don't care what the _hell_ it takes, you're staying with me until we _both_ get out of here alive! _Do you understand?"_

"Yes," she whispered aloud, uncaring of the ramifications of her response. Call it adrenaline, call it desperation, call it fickle impulse, but right here, in this very moment, this felt _right. _Like two broken shards coming together, sealing off all the cracks and the jagged edges, and simply completing one another. And it didn't matter if the pieces could no longer serve any other purpose. They fit. They just… fit.

Without wasting another moment, she and Malfoy immediately whipped around, standing back-to-back as the zombies stampeded through the trees and staggered towards them. Survival instinct took over, and she swung from left to right, pushing back the un-dead circle in a volley of coloured sparks and slashes of fire. She didn't dare allow her thoughts to stray, not even towards the occasional, familiar scream in the distance that split her ears and threatened to tear out all sense of rationality. Instead, she concentrated on the only thing she could—the solid heat emanating from Malfoy's back as it pressed against hers, holding her up and telling her that she still had hope. That she still had something worth fighting for. And most of all, that there still remained one more human who would fight with her.

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


	5. The Fifth Wave

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

* * *

><p>THE FIFTH WAVE<p>

* * *

><p>Draco jerked awake, gasping for air. He could feel his school robes, bunched up and crumpled beneath him, serving as some sort of thin, inconsequential barrier between him and the forest floor. He had another set of robes bundled around him and tucked neatly up to his shoulders—to keep him warm, he assumed, as he'd collapsed into a restless, dreamless sleep. Robes that smelled like her.<p>

_Granger._

Suddenly, he bolted upright, groaning at the rush of sights and sounds that flooded his ears and swam across his vision. Corpses. Hundreds of them. Un-dead. Unyielding. Screams. Fractured light. A ring of fire. Scalding, writhing flames that twisted like serpents and breathed like dragons. Burning trees. Blackened earth. Falling. Fleeing. Suffocating. The warmth of Granger's hand in his. The stench of charred flesh. The snapping, searing maw of the beast within. Control. _Control. _The fight for control…

_"Granger!"_ he shouted, wildly taking in his surroundings. Nothing but rocks and trees in every direction, where ruins and ashes should've awaited him. "Granger! _GRANGER!"_

No. _NO! _She couldn't have… Not her! _Not her!_

"Malfoy?" came a startled voice nearby. She emerged from the trees, remarkably intact, save for matted hair, grimy robes, and a scattering of scrapes and bruises pockmarked across her skin. Nothing critical. Her face seemed slightly blotchy, almost as if from the morning chill, but Draco suspected that she'd spent the majority of her waking hours crying. Crying for the unknown fate of her friends. He realised with a twinge of remorse that he didn't know what had happened to Pansy either. They'd all gotten separated. Hopefully, they'd managed to get out of range before—

No, he couldn't think about that now. Not while Granger still lived. Draco didn't waste another moment. Merlin knows he'd wasted far too many.

He rushed towards her as she rabbited on, "You needed rest, and I didn't want to wake you, so I just went straight ahead and erected the wards myself—I mean, _honestly,_ I haven't the _foggiest _what you were thinking, trying to control Fiendfyre! Do you have _any _idea how _bloody_ lucky we were to make it out of there al—_mmrrph!"_

He seized her by the shoulders and snogged her. _Snogged _her. He snogged Granger, _the _Hermione Granger, into insensate silence. And for once in her life, she ceased talking, ceased _thinking, _and just snogged him back. They'd survived. Against all odds, they'd survived. He didn't know how much time they had left—a day, an hour, or a single, fleeting moment—but he refused to squander it any longer. He didn't believe in any deities and he didn't have much to give her, but in the safety of darkness, he prayed for forgiveness. For acceptance. And that someday, she would think him good enough.

He shivered slightly as he re-enacted every fantasy he'd ever had about her in the searing, wet heat of her mouth, swallowing her moans and echoing them with his own. He desperately fought to slow down, torn between wanting this moment to last forever and frightened as fuck that if he waited too long, she would eventually come to her senses and push him away._ No. _He couldn't let that happen. Not here. Not now. Not when he'd finally had a taste of her. Like the stories that had once haunted his childhood. Like the fool who had sought to slake his thirst for immortality with the blood of a unicorn—so unbelievably exhilarating and pure, yet laced with a terrible curse that would henceforth doom him to a purgatorial half-life, because he, a mere mortal, had dared to gorge upon her essence.

Resigned to his fate, he tangled his hands in her thick, bushy curls and slanted her head to deepen the penetration, ruthlessly slathering her inner walls with his saliva and boldly stroking across the slick flesh with his tongue. Her helpless whimpers shot straight to his cock, the shuddering, heady sensations nearly blinding him with need. He immediately dropped his hands and slid them up the skirt of her uniform, groaning at the contoured patch of dampness that greeted him. She jolted at his touch as he pressed a finger between the puckered creases and rubbed it back and forth, chafing the fabric of her knickers against her and soaking his finger in the seeping moisture.

She tore her mouth away and cried out as her lower lips throbbed and squeezed around his finger, sucking on the firm length of it. Instead of revelling in his discovery, he found himself aching at the sight of her flushed face, swollen lips, and lustrous eyes. Eyes hazed by the elation of their survival and reckless impulse. But for him, those feelings only accounted for a mere fraction of his actions.

He'd told her that he loved her, but she hadn't said it back to him. And he realised, at that very moment, with a despair crippling enough to silence his burgeoning arousal, that he couldn't let himself go through with this. He didn't have the strength or the fortitude to detach himself, fuck her like any other woman, and pretend that it didn't matter. Because it did. He could lie to her, but if he lied to himself, it would only destroy him that much more slowly, dragging out the pain.

He wrenched himself away and sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands and struggling to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth in a desperate attempt to repress the urge to scream himself hoarse or simply to turn his own wand on himself, whether to _Obliviate _or _Avada _his mind into silence, he cared not—so long as it all went away...

"Malfoy?" she squeaked in alarm, dropping to her knees beside him.

She gently rubbed circles across his back in a tentative gesture of comfort, but he flinched at her touch, snarling at her, _"Don't touch me!"_

Her tearful gasp alerted his attention back to her face, already stained with trickling streams of hurt and confusion. A horrible dread washed over him. He'd done it again. Rejected her before she could reject him. And to what end?

"I'm s—sorry," she sobbed. Her inane apology only caused his face to harden further.

"What the _fuck _are you apologising for?" he snapped.

"I—I've only done this once," she wept. "W—with Ron, but neither one of us really knew what we were doing, and now I r—really want to be with you, and I j—just don't know how to d—do it right—"

"SHUT UP!" he bellowed, unable to restrain himself any longer. _"SHUT UP!"_

His incredulity at her abject _failure _to comprehend the _power _that she exerted over him, followed by a scalding surge of irrational jealousy, screamed through his head and seared his vision. He lusted for blood, for _murder, _for the dark satisfaction of bathing in a sea of the bleeding, hacked limbs that had taken her virginity. He fought to rein in his demons, the last vestiges of his sanity pleading with him to see reason—that he had no right, _no right, _to succumb to such senseless rage, not when he himself had fucked at least half a dozen others. But none of them, _none _of them, could ever tear him apart like this. None of them had ever twisted him up with such insidious mastery. And worst of all, he knew that he'd brought it upon himself, because he'd waited, like a fool, for death to draw near before telling her the truth.

"Gods, what the _devil _is wrong with you?" she finally spat back, angrily swatting the tears off her face. "No, you know what? Forget it, Malfoy! You don't have to say a bloody _thing, _because Godric forbid you ever tell me what you're _really _thinking! _NO, _I might 'use it against you' or something as completely and utterly _asinine_ as that! You think that your life is so miserable? That _no one _cares about you? Well, you'd be right, Malfoy! _N__obody _cares about you! _NOBODY!_ Because you don't _let _them care about you—"

"I DON'T GIVE A PISSING _FUCK _ABOUT ANYONE ELSE!" he roared, on the verge of hysteria. "I ONLY WANT _YOU! _BUT YOU'RE SO WRAPPED UP IN YOUR OWN _FUCKING_ DELUSIONS THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE THAT! IT'S _SICKENING,_ THE WAY THAT YOU LOOK AT YOURSELF! HOW CAN YOU BE SO _FUCKED-UP—"_

"WHAT ABOUT _YOU? _YOU CAN BE ANYTHING—_ANYTHING _THAT YOU WANT TO BE! YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BECOME AN _AMAZING _AUROR, AND THE MINISTRY HAS _SOD-ALL_ TO DO WITH IT! _YOU'RE _THE ONLY ONE HOLDING _YOURSELF_ BACK AND PUNISHING YOURSELF FOR CRIMES THAT WEREN'T EVEN YOUR FAULT—"

_"NOT MY FAULT,_ GRANGER? ARE YOU _FUCKING _MENTAL? _I'M _THE ONE WHO CALLED YOU 'MUDBLOOD!' _I'M _THE ONE WHO STOOD BY AND DID _NOTHING _AS MY AUNT _TORTURED _YOU TO WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR _LIFE!_ FOR ALL WE KNOW, _I'M _THE ONE WHO PROBABLY KILLED YOUR FRIENDS IN THAT FUCKING FIENDFYRE! HOW WOULD YOU FEEL THEN? _FUCKING HELL, _DO YOU _HONESTLY _THINK THAT THERE'S GOOD IN _EVERYONE,_ GRANGER? _DO YOU? _WELL, SO DID DUMBLEDORE, AND LOOK WHERE THAT GOT HIM—"

"DUMBLEDORE _DIED _THINKING THAT THERE WAS STILL GOOD IN YOU, AND _SO WILL I!" _she declared, heaving with the strength of her own conviction. Her eyes gleaming with resolve, she ploughed straight through his sneering retort, shouting at him, "And that is why I _forgive _you! For _all _of it!"

He faltered, staring at her in disbelief. "No," he whispered, determined to deny her. "NO, YOU'RE _LYING!_ Take it back! _TAKE IT BACK__—"_

_"NO, _I _REFUSE _TO TAKE IT BACK!" she shrilled. "You don't want to believe in yourself? _FINE! _I don't _fluffing _care anymore, because _I _believe in you! And I will _never _give up hope, not as long as I know that you're still _capable _of it!"

He clenched his jaw in response, biting back his indignation and glaring into her eyes without really seeing. He wanted her to leave. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to push her away. He wanted to love her, but he didn't want her to love him back. She needed a hero, not a charity case—one who would save the day and stand by her side as an equal, not trail behind her like a shadow or a burden. But how would he ever find the words to convey that? How could he make her see?

"I don't deserve you, Granger," he finally conceded, at a loss for anything else to say. He cringed at the truth of his statement, hoping that she would understand.

"I'm only human, Malfoy. Human like you," she responded firmly, but kindly. "And nobody's perfect. Not even me."

Before he could say another wasteful word, she kissed away his fears and all of his protests, clambering onto his lap and planting her knees in the ground on either side of him. This time, she slipped her tongue into _his _mouth, eliciting a condemning groan from his throat as he helplessly sucked upon it. As she mindlessly threaded her fingers through his hair, he leaned back on his haunches and widened his stance, spreading her legs further apart. She jerked her hips down in response, and he inadvertently released her tongue, shouting aloud at the jolting contact.

His shaky breaths blasted into her gasping, reddened mouth as he tenderly laved the bruises that he'd left upon it. He gazed into her soft, brown eyes, beaming down at him with such open affection that it tore down the final wall between them, and finally, _finally, _he let the pieces fall and crumble, knowing that she would give him the strength to rebuild. "I love you," he whispered, barely brushing against her lips.

And this time, he knew that he'd finally used that word right. He didn't use it as a noun, like some commodity that people can just leisurely fall in and out of, a last-minute declaration, a threat, a weapon, a means to an end, a duty, a claim, some object that he could possess, or even a feeling. No, he'd used it as a verb—an action. A _constant, _on-going action that persisted in the absence of tenderness. One that persisted even in anger, sadness, and fear. An action of re-evaluation and change. Of admitting wrongs and learning how to live with them. Of _forgiveness._ And the weight of that knowledge crushed him down against reality more than it sent him floating up towards the sky, as he'd heard countless fools proclaim. But somehow, he found that it didn't hurt as much as before. Because now he knew _why. _And that gave him the courage he needed to bear it to the bloody end.

"Then make love to me already, you thick git," she choked, half-sobbing with relief and a renewed deluge of joy.

At long last, he slid his tongue back where it belonged, buried between her lips and swallowed into her depths. He slicked in and out at a demanding, insistent pace, curling his tongue against the roof of her mouth, dragging it across the ridges, and stroking her into mind-numbing bliss.

She whined in need, tightening her hold on him and shamelessly slamming her snatch down on his prick. Desperately, she chafed her thighs against the fabric of his trousers for temporary relief, sobbing in liberation as he strained through the thin barriers that separated them and wedged the overstretched cloth between her quivering pussy lips.

Seeing her sprawled across his lap, begging him with those big, brown eyes to fuck her hard, fuck her deep, and make love to her, he dispensed with all inhibitions and simply lost himself in her. In a haze of animalistic need, heightened by emotion, the monster that lurked within his heart crawled out of the shadows at last, compelling him to roughly yank her knickers off, unbuckle his trousers, and frantically shove them down to his knees.

Cupping her rear, he wrenched her wide open for him and impaled her upon his throbbing shaft, groaning and shuddering at the slippery excruciation with which she engulfed him. She cried out, instinctively clenching at the hardness sheathed inside of her.

"You're so fucking _tight," _he growled, gritting his teeth against the tortuous sensations. _Fuck! _One thrust! _One _thrust and he already had to struggle not to come. Salazar help him, he wouldn't last… He'd wanted her so badly, for so long, that everything he'd ever felt and dreamed about her came crashing down on him, and he could hardly even breathe or think or bloody keep himself upright. Their first time together, and he wouldn't even last… He tried to focus on anything, _anything _but her narrow, silken passage, pulsing and stretching to accommodate him, the heat of her skin smoothing against his, and her devastating cries of bliss.

"You're so _b—big," _she whimpered, adding to his torment with breathy little gasps and fevered moans as she rocked back and forth on him, unwittingly sliding him in and out. "Ah! _Ah! _Oh, _Godric, _it's going so _deep!"_

_"F—fuck," _he trembled, sweat dripping down his brow as he willed himself not to move, not to surrender. He didn't even have enough strength left to plead with her to slow down. He could no longer feel the rocks or the debris of the forest floor dampening and digging into his knees or soiling the front of his trousers. He only felt her. Mindlessly, he groped and palmed her quivering breasts in retaliation, using his thumbs to trace over the creases of her starched shirt and the thin cups that attempted to shield her tightened, straining nipples from his touch. _Oh, _and those noises she made as she rode his cock, the enthusiasm with which she fucked herself with it, the way that she instinctually snapped her hips down at _just _the right angle for that sensitive ridge on his head to graze and rub every nerve inside of her pulsating cunt…

_"Dra—co," _she moaned. His heart stopped. "Oh, _Draco!"_ _Draco, Draco, Draco, _she murmured over and over again, crying his name out with the reverence of a prayer. _Draco, _she'd called him. Not Malfoy, but _Draco. _Not the son of a Death Eater, not the heir to centuries of pureblood arrogance, not the boy she hated for bullying her, but _Draco. _Just Draco.

_"DRACO!" _she screamed, throwing her head back and succumbing to spasm after spasm of shattering ecstasy.

His hips bucked and he shouted out as she tugged on him and drowned him in compressing waves, mercilessly constricting his entire length and pulling him even deeper into her soaking, sweltering heat. Fuck it, he couldn't wait any longer. Without even waiting for the agonising contractions to subside, he slammed her down on him with a bestial roar and drove himself in up to the hilt. He plunged into her without remorse, yanking her skirt up and hungrily watching her dark, pink pussy lips tremble and slaver down his cock as he speared her over and over. _Fuck, _how he longed to lash that cunt with his tongue and lap up her sweet cream. He'd give it a nice, long, flat lick straight up the middle and suck on those throbbing pussy lips, scraping them with his teeth and fucking into her dripping entrance the same way he fucked her mouth...

But he wanted to make love to her. Not fuck her like an animal. So instead, he sought out the delicate skin of her neck, running his tongue over her pulse and drawing lazy, wet circles with the saturated tip wherever he could taste the erratic leaps of her heart fluttering against it. He gently pinched her with his lips, causing her to mewl in delight. Spurred on by her reaction, he pulled the skin into his mouth, growling possessively at the salty taste of her sweat. He licked and nipped her with starved, suckling smacks as her canal flooded, powerless to the assault.

The dishevelled curls of her hair tickled lightly against his jaw as he ravaged her. Moaning with need, he worshipfully caressed the strands, running them between his fingers and entangling his hands in the lush locks. _"Hermione," _he groaned. "Hermione, I can't—Hermione, I'm going to—_fuck!"_

He'd said her name. Her given name. And in the heat of the moment, the foreign, unused syllables tasted neither strange nor wrong upon his tongue. Only liberating and bittersweet in the reveal. Like a secret. _Their _secret.

She threw her arms around him and held on for dear life, riding out his deep, jarring thrusts, and slanting her mouth over his, opening wide in unspoken consent. He shoved his tongue all the way in, his moans echoing into her hot cavern as she eagerly nursed upon him with each rhythmic slide between her lips. _Fuck, _he couldn't get deep enough. He pounded her from below, harder and faster, pulling his glistening length out to the tip and swiftly plunging back in with thick, complete strokes that penetrated all the way up into her weeping channel. He drenched himself in her scent, her taste, and her sticky, musky fluids as they trickled down and smeared across his thighs.

"Take me! _Take me!" _he demanded, screwing her down on him with brutal slams that nearly dislodged her and driving his tongue deeper and deeper between her swollen lips with each wild gasp that he coerced from them. He nearly rose to his knees on each lunge, grinding them into the dirt and grunting from the sheer force of his exertions. She didn't understand how much he _needed _this, how much he needed _her, _to accept him, embrace him, save him, free him, purify him… He punctuated each silent plea that she wrenched from him with a desperate thrust of his hips. _Please, please, please..._

"Draco," she whimpered. "Draco, look at me."

Shaking, he stared at her flushed face, her damp, tousled hair, the clinging strands that threaded across her cheeks, her reddened lips, the bruises that he'd scattered down her neck, and finally into her beautiful, brown eyes, brimming with vulnerability and fierce, _fierce _passion. For him. And him alone.

"Do you see it?" she panted, biting her lip and keening as he rammed his engorged shaft against the entrance to her womb.

"See what?" he rasped.

"You," she gasped between moans. "The way I see you."

This time, when he looked, he did see himself there. Or, rather, a reflection of him, encircled by the bright, earthen halo of her eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight. He'd never felt so terrified. He drove into her with renewed vigour, afraid that this could all end at any moment. He would awaken, cold and alone, to a world in which he had no place. A world without her.

Yet in her eyes, he'd seen himself, surrounded by light, and even now, the disconcerting image remained burned into his brain. He'd seen himself surrounded by patience, pride, and most of all, love—pure, unconditional love that did not rise and fall with the tides, bloom and fade like the seasons, or wax and wane like the moon and stars. _This love is not as poetic, _he realised, _because it is real._

Even as trees fell and crumbled back into the earth, as flowers withered and leached out their colours, as perpetual winter chained the leaves with frost, as songbirds fled and left the world in silence, and as grey skies smothered the dawn, he made love to Hermione Granger. There, in the open chill of night, even as darkness crept in on them from all sides, he defied the cold. In condemnation, he had found salvation. In destruction, he had found completion. In hate, he had found love.

_"HERMIONE!" _he shouted, her name gutturally torn from him as he pumped his seed into her with fervid, shuddering spasms and shallow surges of his hips.

_"DRACO!" _she cried back, clenching around him as he shot his load deep into her convulsing canal. She rode him into oblivion, helplessly clinging to him and wringing out every last drop from his spent, oversensitive member. _"Draco, I love you!" _she wailed with abandon. In that instant, he saw nothing but her, _felt_ nothing but her, as he threw his head back in a silent scream and perished in a second, rippling orgasm, giving and giving and _giving_ everything he had to her. Everything, until he had nothing left.

She took him. Purged him. Completed him.

Slowly, his soul drifted back into his physical body, and he held her tightly as she collapsed upon him. He nuzzled into her shoulder, into the crook of her neck, and back up to her lips, breathing and brushing against them with sincerity and all of the tender promises that he would never find the words, or the strength, to articulate.

"Draco?" she whispered, her small, warm hands gently stroking his face. "Are you—crying?"

Bewildered, he reluctantly broke their kiss, reached up, and covered her hand with his. He traced over her wet fingertips with his and observed, "Yeah, I… I suppose I am…" He stared back at her with equal confusion, lost in his own wondrous belief.

"What's wrong?" she tremulously asked, her eyes already welling up with concern.

"Nothing," he realised. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just… happy." He choked back a startled and utterly mortifying sob, burying his face into her shoulder and marvelling at the profound notion. "Fuck, I'm actually _happy._ I am so _bloody,_ honest-to-Salazar _happy."_

"I'm glad," she wept, her tears splashing onto his face. He frowned, anxiously glancing back up at her. But when he saw her beaming down at him, not with pity, but with love—in its simplest, purest form—he couldn't help cracking a small, crooked smile in return.

Suddenly, he felt more alive than he had in years. He felt _free. _And he wondered where he'd gone so wrong in his life, that with all of his inheritance and self-proclaimed nobility, he'd never known this feeling. Never known this joy.

_So this is what it's like, _he wondered to himself. _Being happy._

* * *

><p>TO BE CONTINUED<p> 


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